Walking Off A Cliff
by Voice Number Seven
Summary: Those are the books he's already read. The ones with x's were the ones I didn't think he'd like. There was only one that wasn't marked. My book.


Harvest Moon is not mine. It will never be. I WISH.

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><p><em>Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.<em>

Be still, my beating heart.

I clasped my hands over my chest and tried to breathe. It was nerve-wracking, this time of day, as I sat at my desk and tried to pretend, with all my might and will the imagination I usually poured into my writing, that I was not looking at the clock. It was difficult. Ever moment made my heart sputter. The very possibility that he would be late, that he wouldn't come, would make it want to shrivel up and die, lifted by a breeze to float away in an undying wind.

Forgotten. Useless. _Dead_.

I wouldn't die, no, but a piece of me would. A piece of me would always be there, regretting, wishing, hoping, that things hadn't gone the way they had, but another way. I would never speak of it, no, and eventually it would fade from the writings in my diary as well. Eventually, I would pretend I was not bitter or upset.

But I would never forget. I would never, in a million moments of my lifetime, forget, even if I were forgotten.

I sighed, willing away the pessimistic thoughts. My eyes turned to the clock hanging just above the door, ticking merrily away because it no idea what games it played with my heart. _2 more minutes_…

I turned around, away from my desk, and clenched my fists in my lap, twisting my fingers around my skirt and closing my eyes. I had 120 seconds not to look at the clock again. I wouldn't look at the clock again. I _wouldn't_ look. I _wouldn't_.

I had to.

I turned around…

…and promptly fell out of my chair.

"Shit, Mary! Are you okay?"

The rush of his footsteps came over as I picked myself up, feeling around for my glasses and glad that I hadn't cut my hair short like Mother had suggested. It hid my blush.

His hands burned into my shoulders, although they were nothing but gentle. I found my glasses. Placed them on my face. He helped me up. Looked me over in only the way that he can, to make sure I'm not hurt. He wasn't touching me anymore. I adjusted my glasses.

"Sorry, Mary, I didn't mean to scare you so bad," he muttered. I peeked up at him to find him pulling the bill of his hat down over his eyes. His cheeks were a blazing red.

I smiled. "Badly. You didn't mean to scare me so _badly_."

The blush was wiped away, and he tucked his hat back up, shooting me a smirk that tried, for all it was worth, to be annoyed, but couldn't, anymore than it could twist itself off his face and walk away. "No need to go around correcting me, Mary." Was it just me, or did he say that with an affectionate humor?

My wish. "Proper grammar never ceased to impress," I informed him, trying to stop my mind running away with my heart as I seated myself again at my desk. Where had my pen gone when I'd fallen?

"Whatever," he shrugged it off, "What do you recommend today?"

I glanced up, my hands stopping between the layers of paper as I searched for my writing utensil. "You finished the other one already?"

He nodded.

I blinked. "Oh, well… uhm… let me see…" I gave up my search for my pen and opened my drawer to find the list of books we'd received recently. It was covered in check marks.

_Those are the books he's already read_. The ones with x's were the ones I didn't think he'd like. There was only one that wasn't marked. It was handwritten, crossed out, and rewritten at the bottom of the page.

_My book_.

I swallowed.

"Mary?" he asked hesitantly.

"Give me a minute," I whispered.

I glanced at the open drawer. I had an extra draft, written nicely on fresh paper, paper-clipped, but otherwise unmarked. It was the only thing, besides the list, that I'd put in that drawer. _Like I subconsciously want him to read it_. It was finished, admittedly. I had done the revision and editing it needed. By now, I was satisfied with its contents. The problem was, my satisfaction was a far cry from my ability to reveal it to the general public.

But Gray isn't the general public.

It was still a daring move, like jumping off a cliff with the intent of landing hundreds of meters below, in the sea, without splitting open your skin and basically committing suicide. I hadn't even sent this of to an editor or some such to ask for that opinion. Gray was an avid reader, though, from what I'd seen. He'd finished five-hundred page books in two days, because he grew so engrossed…

That was what I was afraid of. I was afraid that he wouldn't like my work. That he wouldn't be engrossed, immersed, in my words, my story, my hard work.

_So what if he isn't? That won't change anything. We'll still be friends._ The problem was, I wanted to be more than friends. I bit my lip, reaching for it, then catching myself, squeezing my hand into a fist, and jerking it back, into my lap, where it was safe from doing anything foolish.

Is it really foolish to trust my best friend with my… my baby, though? My words were the only child I really wanted, anyway, but I would react like any mother if her child were insulted.

He wouldn't insult it. He would give me constructive criticism. He was… he was… he was Gray. He _was_ my best friend, and I…

_I love him_.

I have to show him. I have to.

"Gray?" I looked up, turning around.

He did so as well, placing the book he'd been leafing through back on its shelf, having marked its spot with his index finger, as I'd shown him. "Yeah?"

I grabbed my final draft from the drawer and approached him, tucking a hair behind my ear. "I was wondering… if… well…"

"If you don't want to, you don't have to," he inserted, as if he knew exactly what I'd meant to ask him.

I swallowed again, cleared my throat, and held the paper-clipped pages out to him. He stared at them for a moment, then accepted them and studied the front page.

"I wrote it," I said, and the words flooded out. "I was wondering if you'd like to read it. And tell me what you think. Our next shipment of books won't be around for a few days, and I'm sorry for that. I don't want to say this is your only option because I could never be rude like that or push it onto you or something like that—"

"—I'd love to."

I stared at him. I didn't even have the grace to blush, I was so shocked. I hadn't expected him to agree to it so readily.

"Really?"

He nodded, and he looked like he was smiling. "Really really."

"Oh… well…" What could I possible say? "Enjoy?" "Have fun?" Neither sounded right. That was a bit of a problem for me, seeing as I liked to think myself an author. An author was supposed to know the right words for everything. I bit my lip, trying to smile at him, but probably resorting to a blank grimace instead.

"You can thank me, if you want, once I'm done with it," he offered, smiled, and headed off to sit in his usual spot, like he did every day.

A moment later, the familiar rustle of a page being turned caught my attention.

I glanced over at him. He looked immersed in the book he was reading. I smiled, and found my way back to my desk, to my chair, and looked around for my pen. It sat, balanced precariously, on the edge of the desk. As I slid onto the raised stool, it quivered, and finally rolled toward me.

As luck would have it. Who was I to argue?

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><p>Also, is it just me, or does the song What the Hell? by Avril Lavigne seem to encourage the idea of Mary standing up for herself?<p> 


End file.
